


He's All Talk

by DangerousCommieSubversive



Category: Dark Avengers (Comic)
Genre: Daken you little shit, Dry Humping, Hate Sex, M/M, Manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 04:25:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerousCommieSubversive/pseuds/DangerousCommieSubversive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follow-up to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/871773">A Private Showing</a>. Lester would really rather not think about it, but he can't avoid Daken forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He's All Talk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fatallywhimsical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatallywhimsical/gifts).



It's been four days, and Lester still can't meet Daken's eyes. He keeps up the steady stream of insults, of course, can't let anyone know something's fucking _wrong,_ but he can't _look_ at the guy. Can't even stand _near_ him without thinking about dragging the little faggot off somewhere, getting him on his knees on the floor again. Remembering Daken up on the fucking _pole_ at that strip club, Daken's mouth on his cock in one of the back rooms barely ten minutes later.

He _doesn't_ think about how he _begged_ for it, or how he reciv—recip—fuck it, how he paid the fucker back _in kind._ It's not the kind of thing he _does,_ so _clearly_ it didn't really happen. He takes a lot of meds, he'll cop to it, it could have been some kind of fucking dream.

A _fucked up_ dream.

So he makes fun of Daken and doesn't _look_ at him and avoids him whenever he can, and that works for a few days.

And then—he's in the kitchen, of all fucking places, _trying_ to get a beer before the game starts, and he feels a brush on his shoulder as Daken leans past him into the refrigerator and takes an orange from the fruit drawer.

Lester twitches away from him, startled, and is mortified when he feels his pants tighten. “W-watch where you're creepin' up beside someone, asshole!”

“I'm sorry, I didn't think you'd mind.” Daken's tone is one of carefully calculated innocence. He starts peeling his orange. “After all, we've gotten so much _closer_ recently.”

Lester's knuckles whiten on the door of the refrigerator, and then in a rush he slams it shut and dives straight for Daken's throat, the half-peeled orange sent rolling across the floor.

For a few minutes they just fight, grappling on the floor, Lester spitting curses and trying to go for a dart, a card, a paperclip, _anything_ he can throw into Daken's throat. Daken's stronger than him, and a better fighter hand-to-hand, but he's taken off-guard, so he's not at the top of his game.

“Fuckin' _kill_ you, faggot, I'll rip your fuckin' _head_ off, faggot mutie princess whore...”

They roll to a stop with Daken on his back, Lester straddling him, hands around his throat.

And he doesn't look fucking scared at all. Why would he? Lester can't _really_ kill him, and doesn't _that_ fucking grate on Lester's nerves.

Daken _smiles_ at him, and says, pleasantly, “I was _wondering_ how long it would be before you had to get your hands on me again.”

“Shut the _fuck_ up, freak!” Lester shifts his hands up and presses them over Daken's mouth. Maybe he'll _suffocate._ “I'll _kill_ you!”

But.

Instead of suffocating, instead of choking and trying desperately to get air, Daken just raises an eyebrow, and (as Lester's stomach fills with a sudden, inexplicable roar of _WANT_ ), opens his mouth slightly. His tongue is hot and wet as it traces the edge of one of Lester's hands, and when Lester twitches, startled, the other man takes that as an opportunity to suck one of Lester's fingers into his mouth.

Lester pulls his hands back, sucking in a sharp, angry breath.

Daken says, “ _Lester._ I thought the other night _meant_ something.”

Lester's eyes slide to the side, his ears burn hot, and he mumbles, “Don't know _what_ the fuck you're talking about.”

“Really.” Daken's wrists were trapped by Lester's knees, but he works them out, carefully, and slides his hands teasingly up Lester's thighs. “You weren't _that_ drunk.”

Lester snarls and lunges forward again, but as he grabs Daken's shoulders, Daken cants his hips up just a bit, and—

He's _hard._

What was going to be another stranglehold dissolves completely as Daken's erection, tented in his pants, brushes against Lester's. Lester groans, a choked noise, and says, weakly, “Fuck you.”

“Buy me dinner first.” Daken rolls upward again, grabbing _Lester's_ hips and pulling him in close so that their erections are side by side, blocked from each other by layers of fabric. “But if you're really _that_ impatient...”

Lester bites down on his own lower lip and tastes blood, his fingers curling around Daken's shoulders, and when Daken drags his nails over Lester's hips he shudders and _thrusts,_ panting.

“Go on. Go ahead.”

And thrusts again, desperate, rubbing his trapped cock against Daken's like he's a horny teenager, humping for all he's fucking worth while beneath him Daken thrusts back and licks his lips in a way that makes Lester remember things he doesn't want to think about. The other man's hands are cruel, but so are Lester's, his grip like iron on Daken's shoulders as he rubs their cocks together.

“You're such a mess,” Daken says, almost sweetly. “I hardly even have to try.”

“Shut the f-fuck up.”

“Go on.” Daken grabs the front of his shirt suddenly, pulls him down and laps at the side of Lester's neck for a moment like a _cat_ before biting down _ever_ so lightly on a spot that makes Lester _shake._ The movement of his hips stutters, judders, and _Daken_ jolts against _him_ , eyes closing, and arches against his chest.

Lester stares down at him, feeling the faint dampness of Daken coming in his fucking _pants,_ and suddenly feels like he's filled with an angry triumph, because _he_ didn't go first. “You _like_ this, huh? You _like_ me gettin' the _better_ of you, _don't_ you, freak?”

He grinds down, viciously pleased, and—Daken whispers in his ear, “Maybe I do, but I think it's your turn.”

And as if on command, Lester shudders hard and sees stars and comes, soaking his briefs, feeling the wet patch spreading on his jeans.

Daken smiles at him, and his face goes hot as Daken says, “You know, _next_ time you can just ask. If you'd stop _avoiding_ me, maybe we could deal with little problems like this like civilized people.”

The fog in his head clears, and Lester's face goes hot and he scrambles backwards and to his feet. “Don't know _what_ the fuck you _did_ to me.”

“I seem to remember _you_ knocking _me_ down and rutting against me like a dog.” Daken picks himself up and brushes himself off.

“Going to fucking _kill_ you.”

“You said that before. If you keep saying it and not following through then I might stop believing you.” Daken grabs the front of his shirt and—kisses his cheek, lightly, smirking when Lester recoils as if stung. “You should probably go change. Isn't your baseball game starting soon?”

Lester pulls away from him. “Fuck off.”

“Come see me later.”

Lester freezes.

“And we'll talk about that.”


End file.
